The Medium's Possession Page 3

  Brad and Jonathan liked to poke fun at him about her. They liked to get a rise out of him by insinuating that he had feelings for her beyond close friendship. And sometimes he thought maybe they were right. Other times, he knew they were. But what they never said, never stopped to consider, was just how fucking complicated that was.

  If Callum was his brother, Cecily was his best friend. Not only that, she was little sister to the love of Callum’s life. A relationship with her wasn’t something you went into blind, or half-assed. And there was no casual one-night-stand possibility here—not just because that wasn’t his style. This was relationship relationship—or nothing. He couldn’t afford to have a crush on Cecily.

  And in his most honest moments he knew he didn’t have a crush on Cecily.

  It was so much deeper than that.

  When he’d first spoken to her it had been the middle of the night. She’d been scared and he’d known she was younger and new to all of the spirit bullshit Callum had been wrestling with for as long as Scott had known him. He’d talked to her then, and checked in on her in the weeks after that. She’d texted him when she needed someone to talk to. They’d spoken on the phone. And while he’d thought she was cute in the pictures she posted on Insta, he hadn’t thought anything of it until he and Callum and Zander had visited Zander’s family for Christmas.

  Seeing her in person had made it different. It made her different to him. It put a magnifying glass to his previously unrecognized want to be the one to help her, to comfort her. It had taken a crush he hadn’t even known he had and deepened it into something closer to love than infatuation.

  So then he shouldn’t have been surprised to find, when she’d visited in the spring and he’d first touched those needles to her skin, that tattooing her felt different.

  He had tattooed a lot of people in his more-than-eight-years as a tattoo artist. All kinds of people, with all kinds of stories. Perfect strangers, to close friends and everything in between. So he knew it wasn’t the fact he knew Cecily that made tattooing her so unique. And he’d even tattooed a medium—Callum—so he knew it had nothing to do with that.

  No, it definitely wasn’t that.

  When he tattooed Cecily, it was like his awareness was on overdrive. He sensed every breath, every hitch in her inhale. Every wince.

  Every sigh.

  He could recall, even now, while walking alone on a dark street, the way her skin slid over the barely visible indentations of her ribs when she inhaled. The smell of her hair when he dipped low to add the smallest details in the design. The way the sound of her breath changed when she was breathing slow to belie the pain she knew he hated inflicting—even while he loved being the one to leave those permanent marks on her skin. Loved that his art would live on her body for the rest of her life.

  “Goddamn it,” he hissed to himself as he jogged up the steps to the front door of the house. He seriously needed to cool it.

  Cecily was great. She was fucking awesome.

  But that didn’t make anything about being with her any less complicated. No matter how you did the math, the equation was complex, the consequences of a wrong answer catastrophic.

  Which meant it wasn’t worth the risk.

  Scott turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Then he tossed his keys onto the table just inside the door and unhitched his messenger bag from his shoulder.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up. Cecily was sitting on the sofa, looking at him over the back of it from where she sat, TV on and remote in her hand.

  And just like that, the knots of worry in his shoulders and the spinning in his head loosened.

  “I figured you’d be sleeping,” he said because it seemed like the right thing to say. Honestly, he hadn’t given it much thought, distracted as he’d been.

  She gave him a look as he sat his bag on the floor behind the sofa. “It’s only 11:15,” she replied. “And it’s only 9:15 to me.”

  Scott laughed under his breath. “I hadn’t thought of the time difference. Good point on both counts.”

  “You cost me a coffee, by the way.”

  He felt his expression turn questioning.

  “Callum bet me that you’d be more than two hours later than you’d expected—I bet less.”.”

  Scott chuckled as he kicked his shoes off. “I hate to say it, but Callum made the safer bet there.” Tattooing rarely ran short—or on time, for that matter. “Though I appreciate your faith in me.”

  “I guess I was being hopeful,” Cecily replied as he rounded the end of the sofa.

  Hopeful? Hopeful that he’d be home from work earlier rather than later? Or maybe he was reading that wrong.

  “Zander and Callum left to meet up with some friends at a bar down the street not long ago,” she added. “I didn’t feel like going. But they said to text if you want to meet up with them.”

  Scott shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Let them have some fun.” He should text Callum later, though, to remind him to call if they needed a ride. He took a seat on the far end from where Cecily was comfortably tucked under a blanket. “What are you watching?”

  “It’s just starting—some documentary about a famous performance artist. Wanna watch?”

  “I’m down,” he replied, settling in. He’d normally paint—or text Cecily—when he got home from work if Callum and Zander weren’t around, but seeing as how he’d begun packing up his paints and Cecily was sitting on his sofa, this was much better than his normal routine.

  “You aren’t staying home instead of going out with Zander and Callum because I’m here, are you?”

  Scott looked to Cecily. Her green eyes were full of questioning concern and playful challenge. “No,” and yes. “I just don’t feel like partying tonight.” Because I’d rather be here with you. “Besides, I don’t drink, remember? I’m not missing much.”

  He liked going out sometimes, but most of the time he was sort of a homebody, preferring the close company of a few over loud and bustling places where the only conversation was small. Cecily was the same way.

  Not that that meant anything.

  Cecily eyed him like maybe she didn’t buy his denial. And for a second, he worried she’d heard the inner monologue that he’d tried to ignore. But then she smiled and turned toward the TV, lifting the remote and unpausing the screen. “I hadn’t thought about the not-drinking thing,” she said. “I guess that would make going to bars less-than-awesome.”

  He shrugged, settling back into the cushions and turning toward the television. “Eh, it’s not awful. Sometimes it’s pretty rad to be the only one who remembers all the stupid shit your friends did. But yeah, I definitely have to be in the mood for it.”

  There was a pause wherein they both watched the opening credits, listening to a disjointed music-art kind of piece in the background.

  “I think it’s pretty rad you’ve abstained all this time,” Cecily said after a time. “That you’ve stuck to it, I mean.”

  Scott looked at her again. She was staring at the screen, but turned to see him like she’d felt his eyes on her. His skin felt warm in the sun of her praise. “Thanks. A serious risk of addiction makes for decent motivation.”

  She laughed, but it faded quickly. “I guess that’s true.” Then she shook her head and looked to the TV again.

  He should have taken the opportunity to continue the conversation—hey, I should be more up front about that—but then the moment passed and the opportunity was gone. Now probably wasn’t the time anyway, he told himself.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  For the hundredth time, yes—Seattle!

  Zander threw back the last of her fourth beer as Callum explained that it was really just going home for her—and that she’d landed a pretty kick-ass job there.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Yeah, it was a fucking awesome job. And yes, she was relieved as hell to be leaving her old job behind—but was this really newsworthy?

  The woman across the tabl
e, who Zander and Callum hung out with fairly regularly, reached across and put her hand on Zander’s wrist. “You have to keep in touch. And I don’t just mean on social media,” she said.

  Zander had to fight the instinct to pull her hand away.

  Which was really awful. She liked Emily—they got along great. She and her boyfriend, Brock, were nice people. They’d all hung out a ton. And in fact, this bar was one of their favorite spots. Dark, intimate, with lots of deep wood and rich colors. It was the opposite of touristy, which they all liked. And they were sitting at their favorite booth—near the back, with plush velvet upholstery and a tabletop so pock marked it had to have been original the building.

  Maybe she was PMSing—as much as she hated that excuse. Or maybe she was just exhausted. That had to be the reason for her shitty mood.

  But, also, was it just her, or was Emily’s tone way too cheery for this dark, broody kind of bar?

  “I already said I will,” Zander replied, keeping her voice light despite the roiling agitation in her stomach. “I’m good to my word.”

  She’d never noticed how much eyeliner Emily wore. Jesus, it was like she’d painted it on with a permanent marker—and not the fine tipped kind.

  “And you know who to call if you ever feel like a trip to Seattle,” Callum interjected. “We even have an extra room.”

  Oh, so Callum was just going to invite them to stay at their house, then, huh? Cool. Whatever.

  Zander caught herself. Whatever this was—there was no way this was just PMS—it sucked. And it needed to be done now. She was starting to annoy herself with her own toxicity. How Callum was willing to be around her, she had no idea.

  She needed another drink.

  Just in time, Emily’s boyfriend showed up holding four shot glasses in his two hands. “It can’t be a goodbye party without parting shots!”

  Callum threw her a glance as Brock sat them on the table. “I don’t know—”

  But before Callum could finish the sentence, Zander grabbed a shot glass, lifted it in appreciation, and downed the thing.

  It was tequila.

  Well, nothing to do about it now.

  She grabbed a lime wedge from the dish Brock was setting down, pressed it between her teeth and drew the juice into her mouth. Then she pulled it away and looked at Callum, who was eying her with something like worried admiration on his holy-shit-beautiful face.

  So she kissed him.

  God, she loved this man. Like, head over heels, lay it all bare in love.

  She let that feeling wash over her, praying it would wash away the bitter ire that had taken residence under her skin over the past weeks.

  It had started quietly, a low-pitched hum in her belly that edged her humor in sarcasm. But as the days bled into weeks, that hum’s wavelength had shortened until it was a piercing buzz that crept along her bones and sat in her chest and whirred in her head until she thought she might scream.

  But here, with Callum’s lips on hers, there was light. She could feel a glimmer of what she’d felt like, before. She could feel what it felt like when she used to love him without trying. Not trying to love Callum—she still loved him, she could feel it in her bones even on her worst days—but just trying to love anything.

  Trying to feel anything without monumental effort to push aside the darkness that lingered, always trying to overshadow everything.

  He pulled away gently after she let her tongue trace his bottom lip. He gave a quiet laugh and a questioning look. “How drunk are you?”

  “Drunk enough to want to make out with you right here—not so drunk you have to worry about taking advantage,” was her truthful response.

  He laughed again, louder this time. Then he gave her one last kiss before bringing his mouth near her ear. “Just wait until I get you home, then.”

  She felt her skin warm with anticipation.

  Even while her thoughts spiked with annoyance: Great, yeah, let’s wait so we can do it like guilty teenagers because my little sister is sleeping in the living room. Sounds awesome.

  “There’s always the bathrooms, you know,” she said instead.

  Callum gave her a sideways look like he was trying to determine how serious she was.

  They’d done it in a bathroom stall here once or twice before. She had no problem doing it again. So she slid out of her seat. “See you in a few.” Then she walked toward the ladies’ room on legs that were a little more numb than she’d expected.

  She let herself into the dim restroom and went first to the mirrors above the sinks. Her lips were flushed, cheeks pink—due to the alcohol or Callum, she couldn’t be sure.

  She really hoped he followed her. She needed this—needed him.

  She saw the door open behind her as she gazed at her reflection. Then she saw Callum slip through. Her eyes found his in the glass—and immediately, her muscles loosened and her skin warmed, a flush that radiated from the middle of her until it slipped up the back of her neck and slid down her thighs.

  She watched his eyes darken in the mirror, as though he knew what seeing him standing there, knowing what he was there for did to her.

  She turned and leaned back against the counter as he stepped in close, bringing a hand to the side of her neck.

  His lips hovered above hers. “You okay?”

  She dragged her eyes away from his amazing mouth and looked up into his eyes. Her own lips were numb and tingling, begging for his. “I am now.”

  His mouth pulled into that half smile that drove her crazy as he leaned in close—and dropped whatever last vestige of self-control he’d been clinging to. When his mouth met hers, the kiss instantly turned deep and urgent.

  Breathing him in, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him to her as want bloomed in her blood and blossomed between her legs.

  She stumbled backward with his arms around her waist, their mouths still fused, as he walked her toward a stall.

  The stall door slammed when he kicked it closed. He only let her go long enough to lock it, and she took that moment to slide her panties out from under the frayed hem of her denim mini skirt and shove them into one of her back pockets.

  Then he was on her again. Her fingers were pushing his soft, dark blond hair from his eyes while his hands were traveling up the backs of her thighs. He squeezed hard when he got to her backside so his fingers dug in into her skin and she gasped against his mouth while they kissed—hard, fast, bruising kisses.

  He ran a hand down her thigh, then hitched her leg up onto his hip, before running his hand back up. He trailed is fingers inward, until they brushed against her core. Her back arched and he dragged his mouth along her jaw, to her ear, to her neck, to her shoulder, while she scored his back with her fingernails, breathing hard against his shoulder, her heart pounding.

  He groaned against her skin as his fingers dipped once again, hovering at her entrance as he brought his mouth to her ear.

  “You are so wet,” he breathed, lighting the blaze in her veins anew—just like he knew it would.

  Almost a year together, and holy hell did he know how to work her. Knew exactly what drove her wild—knew exactly how to slow her down.

  He pushed his fingers into her, pressed her back hard against the wall with his body, crushing his mouth to hers so she swallowed her moans. And in those moments, with him, the darkness disappeared.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  “Welcome back.”

  Zander laughed under her breath as she slid back into the booth. Her panties were back in place and Callum’s hair was smoothed once again. Anybody who didn’t know better would never have thought they’d just had a quickie in the bathroom.

  Zander’s head swam. The tequila shot had hit her as she’d righted her skirt and unrumpled her hair in the bathroom mirror.

  “I could use a water,” she said as Callum slid in beside her.

  “I don’t have water, but I do have light beer,” Brock said, pushing a full pint of water-colored beer her way.
>
  “Close enough,” she replied as Callum got out of his seat before fully sitting down—knowing he was going to the bar for that water she mentioned. Still, she took a swig of the beer, glad for the cool glass against her still-heated lips.

  “God, I’m gonna miss you guys!” Emily exclaimed. “You’re just... Who’s ballsy enough to do that?!”

  “What you mean to say is ‘whose drunk enough to do that?’” Zander laughed before taking another sip of beer.

  “It’s not just that,” Emily insisted. “Damn it, you’re just so fucking in love. I think you like each other as much now as you did when I met you last year!”

  Maybe more, Zander found herself thinking.

  Yeah, she was pretty fucking lucky. So lucky it scared her sometimes.

  She knew it scared him sometimes, too. Like when she’d told him she wanted to know more about his mother. He’d reluctantly taken her to meet Miriam. And when it went horribly awry, she’d seen the fear in his eyes. But just like he had done for her, she assured him that this was not the stumbling block that would end them. It was a hurdle, not a wall. She wasn’t so easily daunted.

  And they’d come out stronger.

  Zander looked up to see Callum nearing the table. He smiled at her like maybe her love was shining on her face the same way she could feel it glowing in her chest. He stepped to the side, like he was walking around someone, though there was nobody in his way—until there was.

  As Zander watched, a tall man, thin and ebony skinned flashed into existence.

  She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth and her heart taking off at a sprint, at the same time Callum’s eyes found hers, wide with shock. She blinked hard, squeezing her lids shut like clearing her vision might make the spirit disappear. Callum was beside her when she opened her eyes; beyond him, she saw the man disappear again as she looked into Callum’s worried expression.

  “Everything okay?” Emily asked as Brock looked on.

  They didn’t know. Callum hadn’t wanted to tell them he was a medium, and Zander had respected that. Besides, when she was around, there was nothing to tell. When Zander was around, Callum couldn’t see spirits.